I like to think I’m adventurous. Maybe on the outside I am. No, maybe I really am. I like exploring and traveling and reading all types of literature and eating new foods and chasing dreams.
But really, inside, I like traditions.
I like when my husband affirms a special [read: planned] date night by saying “Let’s do this again next year. Same day.”
Three course dinner at Fiorino on New Years, followed by the orchestra’s midnight performance.
Christmas village strudel and mulled wine. Mittens and scarves and hopefully snow but it’s still tradition if there’s no snow.
Anniversary dinner at Terrain because that’s where we got married and we got married there because the cheeseboard is amazing. So.
Fourth of July BBQ at our apartment not because we’re super patriotic [we’re not] but because summer is the perfect excuse for grilling and sangria and beer on ice in giant buckets.
Is that my biggest secret? Probably not. I still fall for spontaneous trips to the mountains and drinks at a new bar and promising to visit at least one new country per year. And perhaps that’s what makes J and I so great together: we balance our love for new with an enduring love for words like yearly, annually, and again.
Because that’s what love is. It’s enduring. It’s growing but holding. It’s wings and roots. It’s Italy next spring but home in time to see the cherry blossoms.
Love is adventure and love is home and it can be both.